Broken Places (19 page)

It was no hardship to be quiet – although in his mind trumpet fanfares were blaring out, full-volume. All this time, he had remained absurdly anxious that Mandy might prefer to keep her family away from him, in case they disapproved. But now, it seemed, his birthday would be a genuine family affair. The date was immaterial. What mattered was the celebration, which seemed set to surpass all the lame and low-key birthdays of his life.

‘Do you know,’ said Eric, tugging back the duvet which had slipped on to the floor, ‘whales and human beings are the only two members of the animal kingdom that make love face to face?’

‘Whales don’t have faces, do they?’

‘’Course.’

‘Do they do it doggy-style, as well? I liked that best today.’

‘It was all fantastic,’ he whispered, letting his hand linger on her breast. Normally, when making love, his fears and problems still churned away at some level. Only with Mandy did they vanish altogether, as he entered a new world whose only purpose was pleasure; whose only language was gasps and cries, and where the only thing that mattered was becoming so much part of her that he lost his own boundaries and temperament. Mandy was ultra-sweet and super-special, like one of her own cakes, yet she also had a wild streak. Indeed, his body bore her marks – purple
love-bites,
clawings from her nails – as if he’d been tattooed; branded as her love-slave.

He nuzzled against her hair, which was powdered here and there with the odd sprinkling of icing-sugar and smelt of lemon shampoo. He could pen an ode in praise of all her smells, especially the faint, tantalizing odour of her pussy: somewhere between Feta cheese and lilac.

All at once, she sat up; arms folded across her chest. ‘Eric, there’s … something I want to tell you – something really important.’ She seemed embarrassed, suddenly, speaking in a jerky fashion and turning her head away. ‘It’s … wonderful news, in one way, yet a hell of a shock, I must admit.’

Immediately, he imagined the worst: she’d been offered a job by some filthy-rich tycoon, to make cakes for him on a permanent basis, but the bastard lived in Sydney – 10,000 miles away, or perhaps she’d won the
Lottery and was now a millionairess and thus completely out of his reach, or been accepted on some cookery course that just happened to be based in the Far East.

‘Well, spill the beans.’ The jokey tone was totally at variance with his impending sense of loss.

‘Thing is,’ she mumbled, deliberately not looking at him. ‘I’m …
pregnant
. With your baby.’

Dumbfounded, he stared at her, hardly knowing what he felt. Delight, terror, pride and incredulity were stampeding through his mind in such dizzying succession, the result was total confusion.

‘I suspected something was going on, so I bought a pregnancy-testing kit and did the test this morning. And it was … positive.’

‘Surely it’s too early for a test?’ he asked, ashamed to hear how cold and almost businesslike he sounded. He should be whirling her round in
excitement
, whooping in sheer relief that, far from losing her, they were now inextricably bonded.

‘No. They’re much more sensitive these days. In fact, they can pick up a pregnancy before a woman’s even missed her period. And it’s actually thirty-two days since we first made love.’

‘But … but I thought you were on the Pill.’ Why was he being so damned negative? Because he himself had been remiss? Never, once, in thirty-two days, had he mentioned contraception, and, of course, on New Year’s Eve itself, the sex had been so stunningly sensational, no way would he have stopped to indulge in a bout of risk-assessment or fumble for a condom.

‘I assumed you’d be pleased,’ Mandy said, accusingly. ‘Yet you seem to be saying I was careless – even blaming me, for God’s sake.’

‘I’m not. I’m
not
.’ He reached out to squeeze her hand. ‘I’m just …
overwhelmed
, that’s all.’ How could he explain the clash of contradictory emotions – the elation of being a father again; creating another person who actually shared his genes and could be counted as true family; and the importance of this new lasting tie with Mandy. Yet also the huge worry of it all – not just the financial hassle of paying for two children when he was already strapped for cash, but the anxiety about fatherhood in general. Having never had a father himself, nor any other male as role-model, he had experienced the deepest apprehension when Erica was born. And now that his marriage had collapsed and his only child chosen not to stay with him, but accompany her mother to Seattle, his sense of inadequacy had grown. Suppose Mandy left him, too, and took the baby with her? After all, she
knew nothing of the very fears that had driven his ex-wife away. And, added to the turbulent mix, was Christine’s own experience of childbirth: she had almost died in labour, suffered months of post-natal depression, and lost all interest in sex once she had given birth. Could he really afford to take such risks with Mandy?

‘Well, you still haven’t said a thing, Eric.’ She snatched her hand from his. Her body was flushed from love-making, but her face was cold and closed. ‘Do I take that to mean you want me to get rid of the kid?’

Blood rushed to his cheeks. ‘How could you even
think
such a thing?’

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? The way you’ve reacted – with silence and
suspicion
.’

‘Listen, Mandy, you can’t possibly believe that someone with my history would ever be pro-abortion? The only reason I’m here at all is that my mother didn’t choose that option. And, of
course
, I want your baby.’

‘
Our
baby.’

‘Our baby, yes. I’m thrilled about it. But the news took me by surprise and I need a bit more time to digest it. I mean, I didn’t think you even wanted children.’

‘I’ve wanted them for years. But not with just anyone. It had to be the right person.’

All his fears came swarming back. How the hell could he be ‘right’, when he was neither wealthy nor good-looking and, worst of all, ruled by irrational terrors? Mandy would hardly want a spineless wimp as father of their child; someone forced to renounce whole acres of experience that normal people enjoyed without a qualm. And could she ever comprehend the sudden dread that overwhelmed him sometimes when he grappled with the fact that man knew almost nothing – despite all the ‘knowledge’ in all the libraries in the world – and was adrift in an incomprehensible universe, infinitely beyond his grasp. She would simply laugh; tell him not to be so serious.

‘If you really want to know, Eric, I’m feeling pretty lousy. I mean, it’s actually quite frightening being pregnant – and a thousand times worse when I’m not even sure if you want to go ahead.’

God, what an insensitive lout he was!
She
was the one actually carrying the child and faced with the upheaval of pregnancy and childbirth, yet he’d been wallowing in his
own
existential angst, without sparing her a thought. Was he behaving like his own father, who had presumably run off and refused to be involved? The thought was so horrific, he began covering her
with kisses, frantically moving down from lips to breasts to belly, thighs and toes. Then, easing himself on top of her, he whispered, ‘It’s the best news in the world, my love.’

And, suddenly – miraculously – it was.

‘Happy birthday, Eric!’

‘Happy birthday!

The phrase had been repeated so often, he was coming to believe that today truly was his birthday. And Mandy was right: it did feel better to
celebrate
the day that he’d been found; the one day of his life he’d been something of a celebrity.

A tall, flame-haired woman was making her way towards him; a slightly older version of Mandy.

‘I’m Prue,’ she said, dispensing with formality and giving him a hug, ‘the eldest of the sisters.’

‘Ah, yes, I’ve already met Angela and Karen, so now the trio’s complete. And I have to say we redheads are out in force today!’

She laughed. ‘Did you know that less than two per cent of the entire human population have red hair, so we truly are remarkable?’

He forbore to say that redheads had a reputation, dating back to the ancient past, for unbridled sexuality. Was that why sex with Mandy was invariably sensational – because they were redheads to the power of two?

‘It’s a pity we don’t live in Holland,’ Prue continued, warming to her theme, ‘because there they hold a Redhead Day – a festival for people with naturally red hair. Mind you, it has to be the genuine article – no dyes or tints allowed. Hey, why don’t we all attend this year, just for a lark? Holland isn’t far.’

Much too far for him – and, if he was forced to board a plane or ferry, far from being a lark – so he simply gave a non-committal smile. He already knew about Redhead Day – part of the stash of useful and useless facts, amassed in his long years as a librarian. He also recalled the intriguing fact that medieval stained-glass artists used the urine of pre-pubescent,
red-haired
boys to thin their oxide paint, but perhaps that wasn’t quite the thing
to mention in this company. Anyway, Karen had now joined them and the conversation turned – again – to his origins.

‘I think it’s terribly romantic being a foundling, like something in a
fairytale
.’

Hardly romantic, he reflected, and not many happy endings. Despite the clutch of famous foundlings – Oedipus, Moses, Romulus and Remus, Heathcliff and the like – most abandoned infants were unwanted,
undistinguished
bastards.

‘But do you honestly have
no
idea,’ Karen persisted, looking him in the eye, ‘who you are or where you come from? I find that quite incredible!’

Incredible, maybe – romantic definitely not – but how would Karen react if she knew that her own sister was expecting a foundling’s child? There was no more chance to speculate, however, because someone else was approaching: a much older woman in a smart, green, silky dress.

Ah, there you are, Eric! I couldn’t see you in this crush. I’m Frances, Mandy’s grandma.’

He shook the small, gnarled hand, surprised by the strength of its grip. Clearly a feisty lady. Even her shock of coarse white hair had the thickness of a horse’s mane. Perhaps she, too, had been a redhead in her youth – like Mandy’s mother, Joyce, whose hair had dulled and faded but was still unmistakably auburn.

‘So how do you like the house?’ she asked. ‘I used to live here myself, you know, until it was too much for me to manage.’

‘I love it!’ Whenever he’d drawn a house in his childhood, it had always been something along these lines – set in idyllic countryside, with a thatched roof, oak beams and roses round the door – just because it was so different from the reality he knew. He glanced through the latticed windows at the view of rolling hills beyond, which even a sullen February sky couldn’t do much to spoil.

‘Where’s Mandy?’ Frances asked, scanning the crowded room. ‘She seems to keep disappearing.’

He looked anxiously around. Last time he’d seen her, she’d been in the kitchen, knocking back the wine. All that booze couldn’t be good for the baby – not that he could mention it in public. The baby was their secret.

‘I’m starving, Mum,’ Tim complained, running up to Karen,
accompanied
by Joyce. ‘When are we going to eat?’

‘Not till six.’

‘That’s ages.’ 

‘We’ll have the cake before that. Pretty soon, in fact.’

‘How did Auntie Mandy make the cake,’ Tim’s sister, Rose, enquired.

‘It was a real labour of love, I can tell you.’ He was only too happy to talk about the subject, since he found it deeply touching that so stupendous a creation had been made solely in his honour. ‘She bought the bookshelves from a dolls’-house shop, and made the books herself, from marzipan, which she dyed with some sort of food-colouring, to make it look like leather. Then she used gold paint and gold metallic markers for lettering in the spines.’ It was too complicated to explain that Mandy had even included the book,
Tom Jones
– as a little in-joke between them – and made a marzipan Miss Mays, complete with tiny pince-nez. ‘And the library ladder was part of a set of bunk-beds, which also came from the dolls’-house shop.’

‘I wish she’d make
me
a cake,’ Rose said longingly.

‘Well, perhaps she will,’ Eric dared to venture, ‘if you ask her really nicely.’

‘Mum, I’m too hungry to wait for the cake,’ Tim wailed, jigging up and down.

‘OK, help yourself to something from the fridge.’

‘I’m sure that child’s got a tapeworm,’ Joyce remarked, once Tim had rocketed off. ‘He’s always ravenous.’

‘Don’t be silly, Mummy,’ Karen muttered irritably, moving away to speak to someone else.

Mum, Mummy, Mamma … Eric was always super-conscious of such words; words in extensive use today, with four generations present. He was also very much aware of the natural bond between the mothers and their children; that unspoken sense of belonging and security. As a kid, he’d been forced to call all his various foster-mothers ‘Mum’, which had struck him as bogus, even at the time, since surely there could only be one mother. Besides, those ‘mums’ had so many children, continually coming and going, how could any one child be truly special, truly loved? And, once he’d left each successive ‘home’ and been carted off to yet another address, new kids would always take his place and he’d be instantly forgotten. A real mother wouldn’t forget her son.

Having excused himself to the others, he went in search of Mandy; found her in the kitchen still, pouring herself another glass of wine. Could
she
be nervous, too, he wondered, because he was on trial here as her boyfriend and might be judged unworthy? Worse for him, though, surely.

Fortunately, she put down her glass and rummaged in a drawer for matches. ‘Let’s light the candles now, OK? The kids are getting restive.’

‘Yes, fine by me.’

Once back in the lounge, she clapped her hands for silence. ‘Right, we’re going to cut the cake and drink a toast to Eric, so if you could all gather round the table….’

The process took some time, as the more ancient of the guests had to be coaxed away from their comfy chairs by the fire, and various squabbles between the children sorted out with at least a token show of justice. Eventually, however, both young and old were assembled in the centre of the room.

‘Damn! Some of these refuse to light.’ Mandy discarded her third match and tried to straighten the recalcitrant wicks.

‘I’ll help,’ Helen offered, flicking on her lighter.

A cheer went up once all forty-five candles were successfully alight. Eric felt embarrassed by so many – surely five would suffice – but, when it came to the matter of his cake, Mandy had refused all compromise.

‘Right, blow!’ she urged, standing close beside him.

‘
I
want to blow the candles out!’ Rose whimpered.

‘No, it’s Eric’s birthday, not yours,’ her mother reproved in a whisper.

‘We’ll light them again,’ Prue said diplomatically, ‘and all you children can blow them out together, OK? But Eric has the first turn.’

‘If you blow them all out at once, you get a wish,’ another child reminded him.

He was so determined to get that wish, he puffed out his cheeks like a hamster and blew with all his might; exhaling in a gigantic sigh, until every single candle was extinguished. The wish itself never varied – regardless of whether he had a cake or not – that his mother would
actually
turn up on his birthday, in person, in the flesh. It could happen. Couldn’t it?

‘Well, have you wished?’ Joyce asked.

He nodded. Birthdays had always been difficult because of the crushing disappointment when there was no sign of his mother, and not even so much as a card in the post. Couldn’t she track him somehow; find out his address? He added his usual silent sub-wish: if she didn’t actually turn up, then he craved for her to think of him on each and every birthday – and to do so until her death.

Mandy’s father, Harold, an ex-army chap, who still preserved his military
bearing, now stepped up to the table. ‘I’d like to propose a toast to Eric – to wish him a very happy birthday and welcome him to our home today.’

‘To Eric!’

‘Eric!’

‘Speech!’ someone shouted.

‘Oh, no! Let me off. I’m not much good at speeches.’

‘Just a few words, Eric – please.’

He could hardly refuse Mandy’s father, nor his imperious tone of command, as if the old chap were back in the army, issuing orders to a rookie.

He cleared his throat and searched for inspiration, longing to make some announcement that would instantly improve his standing; make him more of a catch. If only, like Tom Jones, he could declare himself of noble birth and thus heir to fame and fortune. Or that he was off to die a glorious death in the service of king and country, as Tom had also done. Harold would surely be impressed by
that
. But since he was less likely to win his military spurs than shit his pants at the faintest sound of gunfire, he decided to settle for a simple vote of thanks. ‘I’d just like to—’

‘Mum, you said
we
could blow the candles out!’

‘Sssh, in a minute, Harriet. Uncle Eric’s speaking now.’

‘Uncle’ was a definite advance, and surely meant he’d been accepted; that this whole extended tribe were actually
his
family – or at least on the way to being so. The thought was so delightful, he immediately gained new
confidence
and began pouring out his appreciation of the house, the party, the whole occasion and, finally, of Mandy. ‘I’ve never been one to believe in Fate, but I’m coming to think that some kindly power must have directed my steps to All Hallows Church on Christmas Day. Because that was the start—’

Suddenly, he was interrupted by a loud hiccoughing from Mandy. Some of the children began to snigger and he was so embarrassed, he stumbled over his next few words. ‘Actually, the … the encounter could well have been doomed. I … I bumped into her, you see, and—’

A second bout of hiccoughing, and he had lost the thread entirely. The children were now laughing out loud, which was hardly conducive to speech-making. She, however, appeared totally unfazed and quite happy to take centre-stage herself.

‘Shit!’ she giggled, clapping her hand to her stomach in an overtly dramatic gesture. ‘I keep getting these awful hiccoughs. I suppose it’s because I’m pregnant.’

‘You’re
what
?’ Prue asked, swinging round to face her.

‘Oh, Lord, I shouldn’t have said! It’s meant to be a secret. I promised Eric I wouldn’t breathe a word.’

His cheeks were flaming as every eye turned to look from Mandy to him. Why in heaven’s name had she blurted out the news like that, when they had agreed to keep it secret? It was far too soon to go public. The baby was barely established and, anyway, they’d planned to tell her parents first, in private; not broadcast it to all and sundry. Indeed, her revelation had already caused a stir. There was a babble in the room, whispered conversations, although he had no idea what anyone was saying. They might all be deeply shocked; regard him as feckless and irresponsible, putting Mandy in the family way when he had known her only six short weeks. They’d assume he’d taken advantage of her; might well gang up against him as an inconsiderate lout. Her father, in particular, was bound to take a Draconian line.

Mandy, though, seemed completely unrepentant and was still hiccoughing and giggling, as her sisters crowded round her.

‘I … I’d better get you some water,’ he stuttered, making a wild dash for the kitchen. He just had to escape before the execration started; couldn’t bear to hear himself condemned as a sordid, selfish seducer.